How often, in this war, has not one pitied the Army Chaplain! As a
visitor to hospital, as a dispenser of charity, as the bearer of
hospital comforts and gifts to sick men, as an indefatigable organiser
of concerts, as the cheerful friend of lonely men, he is doing a real
good work. But that is not his job, it is not what he came out to do.
And the padre, willing, earnest, good fellow that he is, is conscious
that he is often up against a brick wall, a reserve in the soldier that
he cannot penetrate. The fact is, that he has rank, and that robs him of
much of his power to reach the private soldier. But he must have rank,
just as much as a doctor. Executive authority must be his, in order to
assert and keep up discipline. And yet there is the constant barrier
between the officer and the man. Doctors know and feel it: feel that, in
the officer, they are no longer the doctor. Now, however, great changes
have been wrought and the medical officer likes to be called "doc," just
as much as the chaplain values the name "padre." There's something so
intimate about it. Such a tribute to our job and our responsibility and
the trust and confidence they have in us.
The soldier is not concerned about his latter end; all that troubles him
about his future, is the billet he yearns for, the food he hopes to get,
the rest he is sure is due to him, his leave and the time when--how he
longs for that!--he may turn his sword into a ploughshare and have done
with war and the soldier's beastly trade.
Of course, in little matters like swearing, the padre is wise and he
knows what Tommy's adjective is worth. He knows that Tommy is a simple
person and apt to reduce his vocabulary to three wonderful words: three
adjectives which are impartially used as substantives, adjectives,
verbs, or adverbs. That is all. The earnest young chaplain at first
gasps with horror at the flaming words, and would not be surprised if
the heavens opened and celestial wrath descended on these poor sinners'
heads. But he soon learns that these little adornments of the King's
English mean less than nothing. For Tommy is a reverent person, he is
not a blasphemer in reality; he is gentle, infinitely kind, incredibly
patient, extraordinarily generous, if the truth be told. His language
would lead one to believe that his soul is entirely lost. But when one
knows what this careless, generous, and kindly person is capable of, one
feels that his soul is a very precious thing indeed. And there is one
way the padre can touch this priceless soul: that is, by serving in the
ranks with him. Then all the barriers fall, all the reserve vanishes,
and the padre comes into his own, and saves more souls by his example
than by oceans of precept. There he finds himself, he has got his real
job at last.
Among the South African infantry brigade, that did that wonderful march
to Kondoa Irangi, two hundred and fifty miles in a month, in the height
of the rainy season, were fourteen parsons. All serving in the ranks as
private soldiers, they carried a wonderful example with them. It was
their pride that they were the cleanest and the best disciplined men in
their respective companies. No fatigue too hard, no duty too irksome.
Better soldiers they showed themselves than Tommy himself. Of a bright
and cheerful countenance, particularly when things looked gloomy, they
were ready for any voluntary fatigue. The patrol in the thick bush that
was so dangerous, fetching water, quick to build fires and make tea,
ready to help a lame fellow with his equipment, always cheery, never
grousing, they lived the life of our Lord instead of preaching about it.
For the padre's job, I take it, is to teach the men the right spirit, to
send them to war as men should go, to assure them that this is a holy
fight, that God is on their side.
He knows that Tommy, if he speculates at all upon his latter end, does
so in the pagan spirit, the spirit that teaches men that there is a
special heaven for soldiers who are killed in war, that the manner of
their dying will give them absolution for their sins. And the padre
knows that the pagan spirit is the true spirit and yet he may not say
so. He may not suggest for a moment that sin will be forgiven by
sacrifice, for that is Old Testament teaching; his Bishop tells him that
he must not trifle with this heresy, but he must inculcate in sinful man
that he can, by repentance, and by repentance only, gain absolution for
past misdeeds.
And the chaplain knows Tommy, and he knows that he will never get him on
that tack. He knows that any soldier, who is any good, looks upon it as
a cowardly, mean and contemptible thing to crawl to God for forgiveness
in times of danger, when they never went to him in days of peace. And I
know many a chaplain who is with the soldier in this belief.
A little of war, and the padre very soon finds his limitations. To begin
with, he is attached to a Field Ambulance and not to a regiment, as a
rule. The only time he sees the men is when they are wounded. Then he
often feels in the way and fears to obstruct the doctor in his job. So
all that is left is going out with the stretcher-bearing party at night,
showing a good example, cool in danger, merciful to the wounded. But
that again is not his job.
First, when he laid aside the sad raiment of his calling, and put on his
khaki habiliments of war, he thought that the chief part of his job was
to shrive the soldier before action, and to comfort the dying. Later he
found that the soldier would not be shriven, and found, to his surprise,
that the dying need no comfort. Very soon he learnt that wounded men
want the doctor, and chiefly as the instrument that brings them morphia
and ease from pain. And when the wound is mortal, God's mercy descends
upon the man and washes out his pain. How should he need the padre, when
God Himself is near?
Early in his military career the young ministers of the Gospel were
provided with small diaries, in which they might record the dying
messages of the wounded. Then came disillusion, and they found the dying
had no messages to send; they are at peace, the wonderful peace that
precedes the final dissolution, and all they ask is to be left alone.
So is it to be wondered at, that men with imagination, men like Furze,
the Bishop of Pretoria, saw in a vision clear that the padre's job lay
with the living and not with the dying, that he could point the way by
the example of a splendid life with the soldier, far better than by a
hundred discourses, as an officer, from the far detachment of the
pulpit. Thus was the idea conceived and so was the experiment carried
out. And all of us who were in German East Africa can vouch for the
splendid results of these excellent examples. For the private soldier
saw that his fellow-soldier, handicapped as he was by being a parson,
could know his job and do his job as a soldier better than Tommy could
himself. To his surprise, he found that here was a man who could make
himself intelligible without prefixing a flaming adjective when he asked
his pal to pass the jam. Here was a N.C.O., a real good fellow too, who
could give an order and point a moral without the use of a blistering
oath; a man who was a man, cool under fire, ready for any dangerous
venture, cheerful always, never grousing, always generous and open as a
soldier should be, never preaching, never openly praying, never asking
men to do what he would not do himself. Can you wonder that Tommy
understood, and, understanding, copied this example?
When he saw a man inspired by some inward Spirit that made him careless
of danger, contemptuous of death, fulfilling all the Soldier's
requirements in the way of manhood, he knew quite well that some Divine
inward fire upheld this once despised follower of Christ. Then lo! the
transformation. First, the oaths grew rarer in the ranks and vanished;
then came the discovery that, after all, it really was possible to
conduct a conversation in the same language as the soldier used at home
with his wife and children; that, after all, the picturesque adjectives
that flavoured the speech of camps were not necessary; that there was
really no need for two kinds of speech, the language of the camp and the
language of the drawing-room.
And the process of redemption was very curious. All are familiar of
course with the hymn tunes that are sung by marching soldiers, tunes
that move their female relatives and amiable elderly gentlemen to a
quick admiration for the Christian soldier. All know too that, could the
admiring throng only hear the words to which these hymn tunes were sung,
the crowd would fly with fingers to their ears, from such apparent
blasphemy. Well, these well-known ballads were first sung at the padre,
and especially at the padre who was masquerading as a soldier. And when
the soldier saw that the padre could see the jest and laugh at it too,
and know that it meant nothing, then he felt that he had got a good
fellow for his sky pilot. Can you wonder that the soldier spoke of his
padre comrade in such generous terms and that the whole tone of the
regiment improved? The men were better soldiers and better Christians
too.
There is one trap into which a padre falls when marching with a
regiment. Provided, by regulations, with a horse, he is often unwise
enough to ride alongside his marching cure of souls. It would, perhaps,
do him good if he could hear, as I did, the comments of two Scottish
sergeants in the rear. "Our Lord did not consider it beneath him to ride
upon a donkey, but this man of God needs must have a horse."
"How is it that I don't get close to the good fellows on board the
ship?" said a very good and earnest padre to me. "Why don't these
fellow-officers of mine come to church? How is it that fellows I know to
be good and generous and kindly are yet to be found at the bar, in the
smoking-room, when my service is on? Why is it that the decent, nice
fellows aren't professing Christians, and some of the fellows who are my
most regular attendants haven't a tenth of the character and quality and
charm of these apparent pagans?"
What could I do but tell him the truth? I knew him well and felt that he
would understand. Most fellows, I said, don't come to church, because if
they've good and decent characters, they hate to be hypocrites. Now you
know, padre, in this improper world of ours, that many men are sinners,
by that I mean that convention describes as sinful some of the things
they do. What do you tell us when we go to early chapel in the morning?
"Ye that do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins and are in love
and charity with your neighbours and intend to lead a new life ... draw
near with faith and take this Holy Sacrament ..." Well, then, can you
conceive that such a state of mind exists in an otherwise decent man
that he finds the burden of his sin not intolerable, as he should do,
but that he hugs that special sin as a prisoner may hug his chains? That
his sin, or let us call it his breach of the conventions of Society, is
the one dear precious thing in his existence at the present moment. He
doesn't want to reform or to lead a new life. Later, no doubt, he'll
tire of this sin and then he may come to church again. But how could a
man of character go to God's House and be such an infernal hypocrite? He
cannot partake of the Body and Blood of Christ any more when he is in
that state of mind. So you see, padre, it is often the honest men who
won't be hypocrites, that won't go to your church.
Many the padre that used to drift into our hospital on the long trek to
Morogoro, Church of England, Roman Catholics, Presbyterians, and those
who look after the "fancy religions," as Tommy calls them. By that term
is designated any man who does not belong to either of the above three.
One such fellow came to our mess the other day, and in answer to our
query as to the special nature of his flock, he answered that, though
strictly speaking a Congregationalist, he had found that he had become a
"dealer in out-sizes in souls," as he called it. He kept, as he said, a
fatherly eye (and a very good eye too, that we could see) on Dissenters
in general, Welsh Baptists, Rationalists, and all the company of queerly
minded men we have in this strange army of ours. Later we heard that he
had brought with him an excellent reputation from the Front. And that is
not easy to acquire from an army that is hard to please in the matter of
professors of religion.